


The Scarlet Witch

by Metal_Ox137



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 22:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14435655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_Ox137/pseuds/Metal_Ox137
Summary: Following the death of her brother, Wanda Maximoff struggles with her grief - and has to respond to an unexpected offer to join the Avengers.





	The Scarlet Witch

_This is a reprint of a short piece I originally published on the FF site a few months ago. It's not really a story, more of a scribble; it was actually a present for my niece, who made me sit through ALL the MCU movies (in chronological order) during a massive holiday binge-watch last year. The action takes place between the "Ultron" and "Civil War" stories. It seemed to me that there was a massive narrative gap in Wanda's backstory, from the time she lost her brother to becoming a full-fledged member of the Avengers team, which this story attempts to address. Since the brand-new Avengers movie has its debut this weekend, it seemed like a good time to reprint this story, with some slight alterations from the original version. It will only take about five seconds for true fans to realize I know absolutely zilch about the Avengers - but I hope you enjoy it anyway :P_

 

The girl is curled up on a couch in a near-fetal position. She is listening to the men arguing in raised voices in the hallway outside. She doesn't want to listen, especially since she is the topic of the argument. But she can't shut the voices out.  
"Hey, I get that she's a little off," Tony Stark is saying. "I mean, the kid grew up in some slum in Eastern Europe, for starters. She had a building dropped on her family when she was ten -"  
"A building destroyed by rocket bombs," Steve Rogers interrupts, unable to keep the edge of irritation out of his voice. "Bombs that were designed by your company -"  
"Don't change the subject. It's not my fault she and her brother were corralled by government goons and turned into living weapons."  
"She's not a living weapon. She's a kid. A scared little kid, who has no idea what's going on, and didn't ask for any of this to happen to her."  
"So, what are we supposed to do with her, Cap? Hmm? Lock her in the basement for the next thirty years? She can warp reality as we know it with a wave of her freakin' hand. How are we supposed to control that?"  
"It's not about control, it's about responsibility, and right now, we are responsible for her. She has no home to go back to. She has no family. Her brother died - helping us. We're the closest thing to a support system she's going to have."  
"So, we're running an orphanage now?"  
The girl squeezes her eyes shut, huge tears spilling down her cheeks. She wishes desperately that the men would stop shouting. She wants nothing more than to simply disappear. But she doesn't dare move, because any movement might trigger her powers, and everyone - even the few who would advocate for her - are terrified by what she can do. Unheard by the men outside, the girl begins to cry, because try as she might, whenever she closes her eyes, the only thing she can see is the lifeless corpse of her brother.  
The glassy stare of eyes that no longer see. The dark holes that mark the passing of bullets through flesh and clothing. The pallor of skin that has lost circulation and warmth. And the blood - the massive, spreading pool of steaming red blood beside a lifeless body, just beyond the reach of an outstretched hand. Less than three weeks ago, Pietro is laughing, smiling, teasing his little sister. Now he is gone. Only this horrible image of his mutilated body remains. The girl is frozen in horror, unable to see anything else.  
She has other memories, of other people, not nearly so terrible. There is a man named Clint, who in some off-kilter, self-effacing way, admonishes her to be brave. There is Sam, beautiful Sam with his strong arms and sad smile, and it is Sam who carries her to the helicopter that whisks her away from the ruins of her home to some strange city on the other side of the world. There is the woman, Natasha, who frequently checks on the girl, and never seems far from her side. And there is the Captain.  
Natasha has returned. She is gathering the girl in her arms, holding her close, stroking her hair, murmuring phrases of comfort in Russian which she partially understands. Her sobs quiet. She is grateful to be held. But no act of compassion from these kind people can unwind the barbed-wire thorns of fear embedded deep in her heart. She is alone. She is feared. She has heard men and women shouting in angry, intemperate voices that she is a criminal, a monster, and worse. And what is she supposed to do now?  
"It's all right, Wanda," Natasha murmurs. "You're safe now. You’re safe."  
Wanda feels anything but safe.

The days pass. The night terrors still come, but they are less frequent, and Wanda is able to sleep for several hours at a time. She no longer wakes screaming. She is offered food and drink, and slowly, the natural rhythms of her body reassert themselves. She gratefully accepts what she is given, although most of the food is strange to her. Natasha brings her paprikash, strong and flavorful, and this unanticipated act of kindness brings Wanda to tears once again. She had grown accustomed to abuse and constant threats of violence. Acts of kindness leave her feeling vulnerable in ways she does not expect, and she is uncertain as to how to respond. She eats the food and thanks the giver. Natasha also brings her clean clothing, of finer quality than any Wanda has ever known, soft and comfortable and warm. This too pleases her, but she does not know what is expected of her in return. She learns to speak only in English with the few people she meets. Americans always assume that everyone speaks their language, regardless of what part of the world they come from. Her accent is strong, and she must often repeat what she has said in order to be understood. With Natasha, she can also exchange a few halting phrases in Russian. There is no one here who speaks the language of her home. Most could not even find it on a map. 

Wanda spends the next several days trying to read the terrain of her strange new world. Apparently her status has been decided upon, and that status is: confined. She is given limited freedom of movement in what seems to be a compound of some kind, and there are soldiers with frightening-looking weapons at every entrance. They are unlike any guards she is accustomed to. They acknowledge her presence with a polite nod or semi-smile, but she makes no attempt to speak with them. _I'm more afraid of you than you are of me,_ she thinks bitterly, and then belatedly wonders if that is actually true.  
If she is in a prison, then her prison is palatial. The building in which she resides has at least seven floors to which she has access, and she suspects there are many more that are restricted to her. She is given her own suite, larger by far than anything she has ever lived in, with a bed, a television, and private bath, all luxurious beyond any standard she knows to apply. There are many common areas to which she is granted access: a library, a media room, gymnasium, swimming pool, and a large and very beautiful garden hemmed in on three sides by a dense copse of maple trees. She loves the gardens especially, filled with flowers and shady alcoves, and to walk the entire pathway is just over two kilometers. She walks the path twice a day, once in the morning and once again in the late afternoon. She pretends not to notice that her excursions are accompanied by an armed escort, following at a discreet distance.  
She is starting to feel better, physically and emotionally. For the moment, her confinement does not concern her. Everyone she meets is friendly, welcoming and deferential. She is not mistreated in any way. Natasha visits her almost daily, bringing gifts of perfumed soaps, flowers, and clothing. Both of them avoid any discussion of the girl's status. One is afraid to ask, the other truly doesn't know. But Wanda looks forward to Natasha's visits, and they converse together in ever more fluent Russian. As the days pass, Wanda cautiously begins to ask more pointed questions about exactly where she is, and what is going to happen to her. Natasha assures her that she is safe, and that she and her friends are trying every means possible to secure her legal right to remain within the country. Apparently there are extradition hearings pending against the only surviving accomplice of the Ultron project, which Natasha vows to fight to the last. The girl believes her completely, but she is bewildered by the term, accomplice. Do they think she is a bank robber?  
Gradually, Wanda is able to retrieve happier memories of her brother Pietro, without reliving the horrific memory of his death. She can remember him smiling, laughing, and most of all, incessantly teasing her; he would tap her on one shoulder, and then the next, and no matter how she tried to catch him in the act, he would suddenly be somewhere else. He would do this until she was helpless with laughter, flailing her arms at him in mock annoyance.  
She replays these memories constantly, relieved that she still has them, and surprised at how much they comfort her. She has no photograph of her brother. No keepsake. No remembrance. Not even a lock of his hair. The memories are all she has, and without them, Wanda reflects sadly, Pietro would simply cease to exist.  
She starts to keep track of the days. She is not entirely sure how long she has been confined, but it has surely been weeks and perhaps even months. Then, one morning, she is told that she is being granted a personal interview with the Captain. She is made to understand that this is a privilege and an honor not extended to just anyone. She has met him before, of course; but this time, she senses an opportunity to win her own release, if the interview goes well.  
She is brought into a conference room. The Captain is there, out of uniform, looking relaxed and comfortable in civilian clothing. He smiles politely and invites her to sit. He chats with her for a few moments about inconsequential topics. She understands that he only wishes to put her at ease, before they come to the true topic of their discussion. She responds politely and honestly to all his questions. When he finally brings up the true reason for their meeting, however, it is something she does not expect in the slightest. In fact, when he first mentions it, she asks him to repeat what he has just said, convinced she could not possibly have heard him correctly. But apparently it is true: he wants her to begin practicing using her powers again. Wanda cocks her head to one side in puzzlement, as a dog might, staring at the Captain incredulously. Surely he can't mean it. She has not attempted to manifest her abilities even once since being brought to this place, and, in truth, she is a little frightened to try. She has precious little control when she summons forth mystical energy, and the results have been capricious at best. But she looks into his eyes, and takes his measure for the first time. He is a leader in the best sense of the word. He possesses a temperance that only comes with great strength and confidence, and not an inconsequential amount of sorrow. She senses he is not only showing her a great courtesy - he is actually assuming a fair amount of personal risk in just extending this offer to her.  
The ultimate goal, he tells her, is to make her an operative in a special team the Captain leads, a group known as the Avengers. She has met several of these operatives already, and likes them all; Natasha is one of them. But to see herself as a member of that group is momentarily beyond the girl's comprehension. Still, she is only too aware that this is the very opportunity she has been seeking. Accepting the offer would not only secure her release, it would give her a special standing and perhaps even a purpose; she is terrified of the possibilities, but too desperate not to accept. When Wanda is told one of her teachers will be Natasha, that is all she needs to know, and readily agrees to the offer and all its terms and conditions. The Captain is visibly pleased, and advises her that she will begin her training the very next day. When Wanda goes to bed that night, she is in an unusual state of elation; for the first time in months, she can see the glimmer of a possible future for herself. In a word, she has hope.

The days that follow have an exhausting monotony to them. Wanda rises early, she trains, she eats, she pushes herself past limits she didn't know she had, she sleeps. Above all she is grateful. The men and women who tutor her are giving their most precious commodity - their time - to someone who not long ago was an enemy combatant. That they accept her, sacrifice for her, devote so much of their time and energy to her well-being and advancement, humbles her beyond words and motivates her to give nothing less than all that she has. She is well aware that there are ulterior motives for making these investments in her, but the motives are not concealed, and Wanda finds herself a full and willing participant. The constant activity also gives her little time to dwell upon her grief, for which she is especially grateful. Her teachers demand much of her. Her primary tutor is Sam Wilson, who effectively takes on the role of her drill sergeant. He brays at her constantly, barking orders throughout an improvised boot camp, and calls her "recruit". She can only smile at his ridiculous attempts to bully her - he is admittedly terrible at it - but she makes every effort to please him. Clint, too, comes in to work with her regularly; he seems delighted that she is going to join the team. "So, you made it to the trainee ranks after all," he greets her with a wide smile. "I never doubted it for a minute."  
But it is Natasha who is Wanda's most demanding tutor. Every day, she trains Wanda in the practice of martial arts, which seems to Wanda to be little more than an intolerable symphony of pain, in seemingly endless variations. Joint locks. Pressure points. Throws. An inexhaustible catalog of methods of striking with the hands and feet. Wanda has undergone similar, cruder training methods with Strucker and his men; but the differences with her previous experience and this one are many, and they are not subtle. She is not beaten or punished for failure. Natasha is exhorting her every moment, showing her defensive stances, techniques for deflecting blows, all the while offering encouragement and support. Wanda is only too aware that she is being coddled. Natasha has had decades of hand-to-hand combat experience, and she is being noticeably gentle with her new recruit. Wanda doesn't mind in the slightest. This first beginner's level is more than painful enough for her.

Her circle of acquaintances expands. She is introduced to a Colonel Fury, a grizzled, almost crippled old man who has spent a lifetime at war. He smiles when he sees her and calls her "Darlin". With everyone else, he is gruff and obstreperous; with Wanda, he displays a glint of the mischievous, a quality she shares, and inexplicably, the old man and the young girl who have almost nothing in common become fast friends, and make each other laugh.  
She also meets Maria Hill, who is not a field agent, but at a glance, Wanda can tell: she is a soldier. There is no mistaking that practiced poise. Natasha explains that Maria is their liaison to S.H.I.E.L.D. - although, for all practical purposes, these days she works for the Captain.  
Wanda is reintroduced to Tony Stark, and while they do not exactly take to one another, the meeting is not openly hostile. Wanda no longer blames him for what happened to her family - or even for the events that led her to join the Avengers. She senses that for all his flaws, Stark does work with the best of intentions; and quietly and unobtrusively, they bury the hatchet between them.  
Wanda's relationship with Natasha surprises them both. When they are alone together in private, Natasha smiles and calls her 'beloved daughter' in Russian. Wanda is humbled by the knowledge that this remarkable woman who calls no place home, can bear no children, and leaves no footprints wherever she walks, considers her family.  
And then there is the Vision. Wanda is told that he is a synthetic being, created from essentially the same technologies that were used for the Ultron project. But she cannot imagine anything less like Ultron than the Vision, and she does not regard him as artificial; in many ways, she knows fewer souls more alive. He is thoughtful, articulate and compassionate, all qualities she has come to value highly in a world that is sorely lacking in each. Haltingly, she expresses her interest in him.  
Perhaps intending to dissuade, he tells her, with apparent embarrassment, "I'm not actually a real person."  
"That's all right," she tells him with a shy smile, slipping her smaller hand inside his. "Neither am I."  
The event that gives Wanda her name is, predictably, an accident. It occurs on a day when Wanda and Natasha have a rare afternoon off, and, as has become their custom, they visit the local farmer's market in search of fresh vegetables. As they are shopping, a crosstown bus at the crest of a hill loses its brakes, and careens out of control down the street, barreling towards the market stalls. Wanda reacts instinctively, reaching out with her powers to push pedestrians out of harm's way - and with the path cleared, strains to use her mystical energies to slow the runaway bus and bring it safely to a stop at the foot of the hill. The bus is only six feet away from Wanda when it finally grinds to a halt, and Wanda can see the bus driver gaping at her in open-mouthed astonishment. She becomes aware that several people in the marketplace are photographing her with their phones and cameras. In an instant, Natasha is at her elbow.  
"We're drawing attention," she murmurs in Wanda's ear. "Time to leave."  
That night on the evening news, and in the next morning's newspaper, Wanda's photograph is the leading story. Wanda picks up the paper and studies the picture with bemusement, not quite believing that the young woman in the photograph is really her. The headline reads, "Scarlet Witch Saves Crosstown Bus". Wanda looks at the picture again and decides that the description is superficially apt. She happened to be wearing her long, dark coat that day, which has a reddish tint; in the photo, her hands are surrounded by ghostly rings of ruby-tinted mystical energy, which also reflect in the iris of her eyes and bring out the red in her reddish-brown hair. It is the first time Wanda has ever seen herself photographed like this. She has an undeniably supernatural aspect of which she was entirely unaware.  
The Captain is pleased that lives were saved, but worries about unwelcome publicity.  
"It's good PR for us, Steve," Natasha reminds him gently, "And we can use all of that we can get."  
Wanda looks up from the paper, a goofy grin plastered across her face. "I am the Scarlet Witch!" she declares. Natasha and the Captain exchange a questioning glance with one another, and then both nod in approval. Wanda's field agent alias is now official. Her christening is complete. The Captain smiles at her.  
"Now it's time to put you to work," he tells her solemnly.

Wanda finds that there is a distinct arrhythmia to the life of a first responder; while she and her colleagues all try to keep semi-regular hours, sometimes crises don't wait. On this particular morning, it is 3 AM back in Manhattan, where the Avengers are based; Wanda was awoken from a sound sleep, and she and her fellow Avengers have crossed multiple time zones to reach the other side of the planet, where a terrorist organization is threatening to detonate a "dirty bomb" filled with nuclear waste over a large metropolitan area. Wanda cat-naps on a seat bench, knowing she must be ready for action the moment they are over the target. The quinjet makes for a smoother ride than most aircraft, but they still hit an atmospheric bump or two that jostles them. Natasha comes by and touches Wanda's shoulder; they are less than ten minutes out. Wanda sits up and smiles at her mentor.  
Tony Stark sits in the pilot seat, armored except for his head. Although not officially retired from the Avengers, he seldom goes out into the field with the team any longer. Once identified as the source for the Ultron project, Stark found himself mired in endless litigation, a legal quagmire that demanded nearly all his attention. On this particular occasion, however, his weapons expertise is badly needed: there are few men in the world more adept at safely dismantling home-made atomic weapons than Tony Stark.  
"Coming up on the target, Cap," he announces over the ship's intercom.  
"Roger that," the Captain replies.  
"Friday, take the wheel," Tony orders.  
The user interface with the lilting Irish female voice responds calmly, "Got it, boss."  
As Tony joins his colleagues in the back of the quinjet, Captain America addresses his team.  
"Okay, we do this by the numbers, people. Our first priority is to avoid civilian casualties. This is a hostage situation, so Wanda, you'll need to make sure the guards have plenty of distractions."  
Wanda bobs her head vigorously and grins. "Scary monsters."  
The Captain nods appreciatively. "The scarier the better. Do not engage the terrorists directly if you can avoid it. Natasha, Sam and I will take the flanks. Tony will take care of the bomb. The terrorists have guards posted at all entrances to the building, but they're thinly spread. They won't be able to cover every entrance and watch all the windows too."  
"You think these guys would give up on trying to turn high-rises into fortresses," Tony sighs.  
Natasha grins at him. "Admit it, Tony. You miss this."  
"I miss you guys," Tony answers without hesitation. "Would-be dictators with sawed-off nukes? Not so much."  
Friday's voice chimes over the ship's intercom. "Thirty seconds to target."  
Tony dons his helmet, and releases the catch on the side door and slides it back. The quinjet is already in an impressively steep dive for what is effectively a parachute drop - without the parachutes.  
"Can I have a lift, Tony?" Natasha grins at the iron-suited inventor.  
"Always." He puts an arm protectively around Natasha's waist, and she braces herself for the jump. They leap off the side, and as soon as they are clear of the aircraft, Tony engages the boot jets on his combat suit.  
"All right, Avengers," his voice crackles over the radio. "Time to work for a living."  
"You need a lift, Cap?" Sam asks, and Captain America nods.  
"I think this time might be a good idea," he answers, and then turns to the newest member of his team. "Wanda, watch your six down there," he admonishes her.  
Wanda looks back at the Captain and smiles. She knows he is not warning her because he thinks she's forgotten. The Captain has another mission, just as critical as the team mission. Everyone comes home. Safe and sound.  
"I will," she promises, and then takes a sprinting run out through the open doorway.  
For a moment, she writhes helplessly in the buffeting wind; as she clears the the quinjet's wake, she begins her free-fall. She spreads her arms wide and shrieks with laughter.  
"Look at me now, Pietro!" she shouts breathlessly as she falls. She welcomes the surge of adrenaline, but she is in no real danger up here. She knows that when it becomes necessary, she can fly. She is the Scarlet Witch, and she and her friends are off to save the world.


End file.
